by Jaycee Clark
She noticed again his fingers were long, elegant, but there were nicks on them, and a few scars. From what? Did he play the piano? Was he an artist? She still wondered.
Who knew?
Who cared?
Up close, she noticed his eyes were the color of lush green grass. Straight-on green, not hazel, not aqua. Just green. She thought she’d imagined that this afternoon. He had a few freckles dusting across his face and along the backs of his hands and wrists. She hadn’t noticed that before.
The café was quieter than usual. She leaned toward him just as he did her.
“Quinlan.”
“Ella.” They both spoke across the other and grinned.
His single dimple only showed up in his laugh lines. Hell, she had dimples, and she knew damn well that hers didn’t look half as good on her as his did on him.
“It is good to see you again,” he told her.
She watched as he slowly shifted in the chair, not managing to hide the slight wince.
“Knee or something else?”
“Knee and femur.”
She waited but he didn’t say anything else.
Silence lengthened and stretched. Finally, she cleared her throat and took a sip of chicory coffee, raising her brow at him. His eyes were intense on her. Maybe he just didn’t talk too much, and as handsome as he was, he seemed . . . almost out of practice at this or something.
“So what do you do, other than help those less fortunate?”
She licked the powdered sugar off her thumb and saw his eyes darken, narrow. She shook her head. “I’m a yoga instructor and I play with any medium of art and I love music.”
He grinned. “Yoga instructor. Do you enjoy it?”
She should probably clarify. “Well, it wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing or went to school for—though I did go to school and am a certified instructor. Yes. I do enjoy it and my other odd jobs I do.”
“What did you go to school for, if I may ask?” He bit into a beignet and the sugar dusted his dark shirt. She watched as he chewed and the muscles rippled in his throat as he swallowed.
“Um. I’ve a marketing degree . . .” She shrugged and sipped her drink. “I’m not really the suit, five days a week type, I discovered.”
He grinned. “A free spirit stuck in the business world. How long did that last?”
“Something like that. And not long.”
“Sounds like there might be a story.”
“We all have one.” She leaned up on her elbows and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, you and your boys here for pleasure? You never actually said, though you mentioned them kidnapping you for a good time.”
He twisted his mouth and glanced in the direction his brothers had gone. “They’d say that, I’m sure.”
“They were married or had on rings. Though not the last one.”
“Brody. No, he’s single and will undoubtedly stay that way as long as possible.”
He looked at her, his brows drawn. The wind blew through the courtyard and his scent carried to her. Something rainy, but spicy and wonderful, and she wondered what it was.
“Well, this is the place for fun,” she said, not hiding her skepticism.
“No, nothing like that. Those men love their wives.” He shifted in his chair and rubbed his thigh. “They actually came down here to remind me what a good time was.”
“You don’t know how to have one? A good time?” she asked, cocking a brow and taking another drink. “Sugar, I find that hard to believe. Everyone knows how to have a good time.”
“Not so much anymore I don’t, no.” He shrugged. “Once upon a time . . . yeah.” He sipped his coffee and winced.
She laughed. “Chicory, not for everyone.”
He shook his head. “Apparently not.”
“Questioning how to have fun,” she murmured. “Sounds like woman trouble.”
He snorted and took a drink of his water. “Oh, you’ve no idea.”
Be a shame if he were married. She did not do married men in any form or fashion.
“So, you married? Still? Like in the middle of the separation and that’s why your mom is trying to set you up with friends’ daughters?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “If I was married, even if separated, I wouldn’t have asked you to join me here or anywhere else, Ella.”
“Men are men.”
“And they say I’ve become cynical.”
She grinned. “I’m not cynical.”
He studied her for a moment, his head tilted to the side. “Maybe not.”
“Fine, then, a bad divorce? No, if that was the case, you’d be going for overtime with the ladies.” She wiggled in her seat.
“Really? And you know this because . . . ?”
“Observation, darlin’.”
He rubbed his leg again. “No, no divorce or bad breakup. Life, for lack of a better explanation. Look, I don’t really know how to do this anymore.” He rubbed the corner of his mouth with a finger. “Truth be told, I used to be smooth and would have tried to talk you into bed by the end of the night.” He kept his gaze on her.
Had he just . . . She frowned.
He blushed, or at least it appeared that his cheekbones flushed a bit.
“Well, that’s straightforward enough, sugar. So you won’t try to sweet-talk me into bed by the end of the night?” She gave him a playful pout. “What a shame.”
He only grinned and shook his head. “You are a handful, aren’t you?”
She laughed and leaned up, touching his arm. “Care to find out?”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “What do you think?”
“But what if I’m not interested?”
“Then you’re a really good actress.” He covered her hand on his arm with his other one. “If you weren’t interested, I’d simply say good night, Ella. And then I’d go back to the house we’re renting and listen to my brothers give me hell on my lack of charm with a beautiful woman who has an endearing way of saying sugah.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “And I’d have to wonder if you weren’t lying.”
She smiled. “Oh, I don’t know if you lack charm per se. I think you’ve just forgotten how to use it. Or rather you use it in a different way than most men. Though you are doing pretty damned good, if you ask me.”
He opened his mouth, ran his tongue around his teeth, then shook his head. A witty comeback?
Again silence settled between them. From here, she could see the sinewy muscles of his forearms and knew from the way his shirt fit him that his shoulders would be muscled as well.
“So what exactly do you do, Mr. Not-sure-you-want-to-charm-me-into-bed Quinlan?”
“This and that. Not as much as I used to. And, honey, I never said I didn’t want to charm you into bed.”
She smiled and leaned closer to him. “Ah, see, you do remember charm.”
“Is that what that is?” he asked quietly.
She sighed and said, “Thanks for tonight, by the way.”
“Would you like something else? Go somewhere else?” His fingers tapped on the edge of his water glass, even as he continued to caress her knuckles with his other hand. “Or something?”
“Go somewhere else? Like one of the bars? Plying a lady with alcohol is frowned upon.”
“Honey, I’ve never had to ply a woman with alcohol.”
Witty comebacks indeed.
She raked her gaze over him again and licked her lips. “No, I don’t image you would have to, Quinlan.” She laughed. “See, there’s that charm again and the straightforward talk. You’re supposed to toss a few innuendos in there.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, like . . .” She stopped. His green eyes were locked on her and she lost her train of thought. “Um . . .” She licked her lips.
“Like?”
“What?”
He laughed, again a rusted sound as if he didn’t laugh much.
“Look, frankl
y, I don’t have a lot of experience at this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” he asked, smiling, lines bracketing his mouth.
“How about we get out of here and go get to know each other,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Or something . . .”
His gaze narrowed on her for a minute. “Or something . . .”
They pushed their chairs back and he offered her his arm. Did he always do that? For a minute, she just stared at it again.
“What?” he asked, tilting his head.
“It’s been awhile since a guy offered me his arm . . . That’s not true,” she added as she remembered. “Someone did.”
Ella frowned at the memory and shook it off with a smile.
“And he did not leave a good impression. I’ll have to change that. I’d offer you my hand but something tells me that wouldn’t go over any better. Between my arm and my hand, I have to offer you one or you’re likely to break something in those lovely shoes.”
She chuckled and they made their way out onto the street, which was less crowded than normal but still busy. A sax melted and stepped along the air with the blasts of a trumpet from up the street. A sitar player leaned against the iron fence of the square and strummed some sort of depressing tune.
Looking up the way she saw the glass and water musician was set up on the corner. Stepping on an uneven brick, she wobbled and he gripped her hand and arm.
“Steady. And you were worried about my knee?”
“Says who?”
“You, you kept looking at my cane and leg. I promise neither bites.”
She grinned up at him. “Maybe I do though.”
He paused for barely a second. “I can but hope.”
She laughed. “It’s these shoes. My friend got them for me. Said they were a sure deal.”
“Sure deal? Of what? A broken appendage?”
She laughed again. “Come on, Quinlan. Let’s walk on a lovely night, holding each other up so neither of us lands on the street.” She shivered. “We can talk about things.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you want to talk about.”
Chapter 5
They walked for over an hour, passing galleries he made a note to visit later. There was an old bookstore on Pirate’s Alley she swore was a favorite place. They talked and laughed and watched as tourists snapped photos, stumbled along, or kissed in the bright streetlights or darkened alcoves. They discussed music and art, things they liked, things they didn’t. He was smart, knowledgeable, and he listened.
He walked her back to her place holding her hand. Was she being stupid? Probably.
“I don’t normally do this sort of thing, you know.”
“I got that impression. And neither do I.” At her stoop, he stopped her and pulled her around to face him. “You were right about a couple of things earlier. It’s been awhile for me.”
“Really? ’Cause I have to say, sugar, you don’t look like the type of guy that it’d be awhile for.”
He grinned down at her. This was stupid on so many levels. So he was visiting from out of town. So she didn’t really, really know him, but damn it. She missed the feel of a man’s hands on her. The way a man’s hands could heat her skin with a single barely-there touch. Quin’s hands were calloused, long-fingered, and reminded her of an artist’s hands. Or maybe it was that stupid paint she’d seen on his jeans when they met.
Quinlan was frowning. She reached up and rubbed the crease between his brows.
“I have a confession to make,” she told him.
“Really? What? You live with your mother? You’ve changed your mind? Please tell me you’re not really a man or something, because then I might just have to cry myself to sleep tonight if that were the case.” He brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, but kept it between his fingers. “I love your hair, weird as that sounds. Blue hair should not be sexy.”
She shrugged. “I like my hair too. Next I think I’ll go purple.”
He chuckled. “You’ll make purple sexy as hell, I’m sure. So confession?”
“No, I’m not a guy, no pickle surprises for you.”
He laughed outright and tugged her closer. “That’s a relief.”
“And if you suddenly didn’t want to come in, I’d understand. Though I too might cry myself to sleep.” It had been way too damned long for her as well. She never did one-night stands . . . or rather she had never. Not before now.
“Confession?” he asked, leaning a little closer to her.
She stepped backward up her front step so that she was closer to his height. “Well, see, the thing is, it’s been awhile for me as well and the thing is . . . I’m serious about not doing this.”
“Not doing this?” He frowned, then nodded. “That’s fine.”
“What? No, I mean, this, yes, but this, this . . .” She huffed out a sigh. “I mean . . .” She motioned between them, then behind her. “Asking guys over. Or only after just meeting them. Or well, the rest . . . something . . . and see, I don’t want you to think—”
He moved quickly, his lips on hers before she had time to think about it. To plan to ask him. To tell him . . .
His lips pressed softly at first, then more demandingly. The . . . whatever was between them sparked, flared and engulfed.
His hand moved from her hair to cup her jaw, his fingers caressing softly on the back of her neck, giving her chills, even as he pulled her closer toward him.
He tasted like powdered sugar and coffee from their midnight snack, he smelled like the promise of sin with a hint of redemption.
To hell with it.
Ella leaned into the kiss, giving him as much as he was giving her. She kissed him back, sliding her tongue along the seam of his lips, teasing, tempting, asking . . . She moved her hands from between them, rubbing her fingers under his jacket, up his crisp dress shirt, soft beneath her fingers. She could feel his muscles beneath his shirt.
“Confession,” he asked against her mouth, licking her lips.
“Um . . .” She kept kissing him as he nibbled on her lips, his other hand moving softly on her arm, one thumb caressing the vein in her neck.
“Your confession . . .” He kissed her again, moving from her mouth to her jawline, kissing softly along her jaw.
“Oh, um . . .” He kissed wonderfully. She’d been kissed before, quite a bit actually. But Quinlan, he was good. No, he was great. She reached up, cupped his jaw and turned his mouth back to hers, where she sealed his mouth with hers and devoured.
He pulled back, his cheeks flushed, his eyes intense. “We should probably get inside if this is going to continue. Not that I’m pressing or . . .” He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. His cane was tucked up under his arm.
“Quinlan, shut up.” Normally, she went in through her courtyard and the door that led to her kitchen. Her front door led directly into her bedroom. She dug a key out of a loose brick and opened the door.
Thank God she’d picked up yesterday and did her laundry. At least things were put away and lingerie wasn’t hanging haphazardly out of a drawer. The mosquito netting hanging from the ceiling around her queen-sized bed fluttered in the slight breeze that blew in when she opened the door.
Quinlan waited on the threshold, a grin tilting the edge of his mouth up on one side. “Well, that’s convenient.”
She jerked him in. “Yeah, sugar, tonight it most definitely is very convenient because I don’t wanna wait anymore.”
Ella shut the old double doors behind them and then leaned back. Streetlight flooded into the room from the side windows. The ceiling fan made a slight whirring sound in the quiet. Too quiet.
For a moment, they merely stood there, her against the door, him standing close, almost too close. Breathing, just breathing—barely.
Quinlan stood silent and still for a beat longer. Tension stretched between them, coiled, tightened the air and her skin. Then he stepped toward her. “You sure about this?”
; “No. Yes. I’m sure I don’t want you to leave.”
He smiled and nodded. “Okay, then.”
She laid her hand on his chest and he leaned in and caged her with his arms on the doors behind her. His eyes, bright and wicked green, met hers as he slowly lowered his head.
“So it’s been a bit for the both of us?”
“Uh-huh,” she whispered, still meeting his gaze before dropping her own.
“Well, they say it’s like riding a bike,” he whispered before his lips sealed hers. The man could kiss, his lips warm and soft, yet firm and demanding. His hands were everywhere, caressing, pressing, rubbing. The silky material of her dress rubbed against her sensitive skin.
Ella wanted to feel him against her, not the dress. She stumbled over the buttons of his shirt until he finally helped her. She shoved the sides of his dress shirt aside, running her hands over the tight, rock-hard muscles.
“Oh my,” she whispered. Man was ripped.
Her dress was a little navy number, with halter straps. The material slid against her as he teased her slowly, caressing her through the dress. He grinned a sensual one-sided grin and said, “The top or the bottom? So many choices with a sexy little dress.”
His fingers played with the clasp before she felt it give, and shivered as his fingers tickled the nape of her neck. The straps gave way and the dress slid to her waist before he quickly shoved it down her legs. She stepped out of it, glad she’d worn the stupidly high wedge shoes.
Yoga kept her in shape, she knew, but she also knew with her short stature she was curvy at best, a bit top heavy thanks to a full C cup and a narrow waist that made her hips look wider no matter how many goddess poses she did. Men didn’t always prefer the curvaceous, she’d learned, and . . .
“What have we here?” he asked, his gaze skimming down her. “My God, you’re perfect,” he whispered, his hands clasping her waist, flaring out over her hips. “A dragonfly?” He traced the wings below her hipbone.
“I like dragonflies,” she muttered.
Her bra and matching panties were like many things she owned. Multicolored. This set was swirls of blues, greens and purples.